Part 62 (2/2)
”_Santa Virgin_! I'm under a serape, with a sombrero on my head. He'll mistake me for a man! Off, ye ugly disguises, and let me seem what I am--a woman.”
Scarce quicker could be the transformation in a pantomime. The casting off the serape reveals a form that Hebe might have envied; the removal of the hat, a head that would have inspired the chisel of Canova!
A splendid picture is exhibited in that solitary glade; worthy of being framed, by its bordering of spinous trees, whose hirsute arms seem stretched out to protect it.
A horse of symmetrical shape, half backed upon his haunches, with nostrils spread to the sky, and tail sweeping the ground; on his back one whose aspect and att.i.tude suggest a commingling of grand, though somewhat incongruous ideas, uniting to form a picture, statuesque as beautiful.
The _pose_ of the rider is perfect. Half sitting in the saddle, half standing upon the stirrup, every undulation of her form is displayed-- the limbs just enough relaxed to show that she is a woman.
Notwithstanding what she has said, on her face there is no fear--at least no sign to betray it. There is no quivering lip--no blanching of the cheeks.
The expression is altogether different. It is a look of love--couched under a proud confidence, such as that with which the she-eagle awaits the wooing of her mate.
You may deem the picture overdrawn--perhaps p.r.o.nounce it unfeminine.
And yet it is a copy from real life--true as I can remember it; and more than once had I the opportunity to fix it in my memory.
The att.i.tude is altered, and with the suddenness of a _coup d'eclair_; the change being caused by recognition of the horseman who comes galloping into the glade. The s.h.i.+ne of the gold-laced vestments had misled her. They are worn not by Maurice Gerald, but by Miguel Diaz!
Bright looks become black. From her firm seat in the saddle she subsides into an att.i.tude of listlessness--despairing rather than indifferent; and the sound that escapes her lips, as for an instant they part over her pearl-like teeth, is less a sigh than an exclamation of chagrin.
There is no sign of fear in the altered att.i.tude--only disappointment, dashed with defiance.
El Coyote speaks first.
”_H'la! S'norita_, who'd have expected to find your ladys.h.i.+p in this lonely place--wasting your sweetness on the th.o.r.n.y chapparal?”
”In what way can it concern you, Don Miguel Diaz?”
”Absurd question, S'norita! You know it can, and does; and the reason why. You well know how madly I love you. Fool was I to confess it, and acknowledge myself your slave. 'Twas that that cooled you so quickly.”
”You are mistaken, Senor. I never told you I loved you. If I did admire your feats of horsemans.h.i.+p, and said so, you had no right to construe it as you've done. I meant no more than that I admired _them_--not you. 'Tis three years ago. I was a girl then, of an age when such things have a fascination for our s.e.x--when we are foolish enough to be caught by personal accomplishments rather than moral attributes. I am now a woman. All that is changed, as--it ought to be.”
”_Carrai_! Why did you fill me with false hopes? On the day of the _herradero_, when I conquered the fiercest bull and tamed the wildest horse in your father's herds--a horse not one of his _vaqueros_ dared so much as lay hands upon--on that day you smiled--ay, looked love upon me.
You need not deny it, Dona Isidora! I had experience, and could read the expression--could tell your thoughts, as they were then. They are changed, and why? Because I was conquered by your charms, or rather because I was the silly fool to acknowledge it; and you, like all women, once you had won and knew it, no longer cared for your conquest. It is true, S'norita; it is true.”
”It is not, Don Miguel Diaz. I never gave you word or sign to say that I loved, or thought of you otherwise than as an accomplished cavalier.
You appeared so then--perhaps were so. What are you now? You know what's said of you, both here and on the Rio Grande!”
”I scorn to reply to calumny--whether it proceeds from false friends or lying enemies. I have come here to seek explanations, not to give them.”
”Prom whom?”
”Prom your sweet self, Dona Isidora.”
”You are presumptive, Don Miguel Diaz! Think, Senor, to whom you are addressing yourself. Remember, I am the daughter of--”
”One of the proudest _Haciendados_ in Tamaulipas, and niece to one of the proudest in Texas. I have thought of all that; and thought too that I was once a haciendado myself and am now only a hunter of horses.
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